


Uncommon People

by oddishly



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: Arthur crosses the floor. Merlin comes back.





	Uncommon People

**Author's Note:**

> I have been feeling homesick for the UK recently and this was the result. With apologies to Marcus Trescothick, who I'm sure is very nice in real life.
> 
> If you don't know what crossing the floor is, [the wikipedia entry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crossing_the_floor) may be helpful.

Arthur rubs his hand over his face before opening the door.

“Come in, then,” he says, and steps aside to let Merlin past.

 

 

“Just to be clear,” says Merlin, bending at the waist to peer out at the grim London skyline, deep fog obscuring the tube stop over the road and the painted yellow spiral staircase he just climbed four floors to the top of. “I’m still not on your side, I’m not going to vote for you. And not just because I don’t live in your constituency.”

“That so?” says Arthur. “Well, it’s good to see you anyway.”

Merlin’s face does something complicated. His ears are still fucking ridiculous, Arthur has no idea why he hasn’t done something about them. He shuts the front door behind him and goes to the fridge, saying, “Want a beer? Or a cup of tea?” 

“Both?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and cracks open a couple of Carlsbergs. He carries them into the lounge and hands a bottle over.

Merlin leans back below the bookcase. The other occupant of the flat has a full wall of leftist politics books and pamphlets and Merlin is unknowingly sat below the shrine dedicated to Angela Davis and some poet or other that Arthur doesn’t care for. Or maybe Merlin does know. It seems like something he’d do.

The oven timer goes off. Arthur heads back into the kitchen and locates a tea towel to pull the baking tray out, tips the chips onto a plate and grates a small mountain of cheese over the top before carrying the plate through to the lounge again.

He settles the chips down on the bench between them and sits down, mainly so Merlin can’t accuse him of hovering.

“That’s more like it,” says Merlin, and proceeds to lick the cheese off his fingers, one by one.

 

 

They haven’t talked in years, and still Merlin manages to push all Arthur’s buttons without even trying. Arthur walks out of the bathroom ten minutes later to find Merlin with his feet wrapped up in a sleeping bag whose real owner no one ever got around to locating, reading Arthur’s flatmate’s social history of cricket.

“Oh, come _on_.”

“What,” protests Merlin, and waves the book. “I care!”

“Pull the other one. Cricket?”

“It was originally for poor people, actually. Which you’d know if you ever sat down to read about it.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, _I_ don’t care. I’ve met Marcus Trescothick at about six different events with my father and he’s really not worth the time. And if someone who gets talked about as much as he does can’t make a game interesting, well ...”

Merlin gives him a look back. Then his mouth quirks into the same disarming shape that got Arthur into trouble the last time. “Me, too. He’s boring as heck, isn’t he? I met him with a group of Year 8s and 9s and was all ready for him to change my mind about cricket players and instead I couldn’t get him off the subject of those little hats you wear.”

“Not me, I don't play cricket.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve seen pictures.” Merlin pauses. “Adorable pictures.”

Arthur grinds his teeth. “Year 6 doesn’t count, I didn’t have a choice then. Not unrelatedly, my sister has got a lot to answer for, showing you them.”

“Mmhmm,” says Merlin, smirking across the table.

 

 

Merlin is a problem. Arthur doesn’t mind telling him that, another lager in.

“You were an MP in the nasty party,” Melin replies promptly. “Your dad’s still a fucking _lord_ in the nasty party. If any one of us is a problem, it’s you.”

“Have you ever heard anyone else our age call it the nasty party?” demands Arthur, ignoring the rest. He digs his feet into Merlin’s sleeping bag and takes a swig of beer, jabbing Merlin with his bottle of--oh. With the corkscrew. The pointy end. He whips it away and gives Merlin’s arm a pat. Then he remembers himself and stops. “I don’t think I’ve seen that anywhere outside of 90s newspapers and editorials.”

“I have,” says Merlin. He’s patently lying. “And not just because I wrote it, either. And definitely not just about you.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lift without his meaning them to. “You did? Where?”

“Oh, here and there,” says Merlin, waving an airy-fairy hand around the room, at the drizzle outside the window. “In The Boar, mostly, but--”

“I refuse to believe a Warwick newspaper published anti-Conservative anything.”

“Heavily coded,” says Merlin. “But it was there if you knew what you were looking for.”

Arthur grunts. “Well, now I’m a Labour turncoat.” His stomach clenches at the thought of what comes next. “That’s got to count for something.”

“Something,” Merlin agrees, voice softening again, and pokes Arthur’s leg with his toe.

 

 

Merlin has clearly been keeping tabs on Arthur's career.

"I have not," splutters Merlin. "Our friends talk about you, that's all. And all of the newspapers, I don't know what the Telegraph's going to start putting on the front page now you can't live there anymore. And Radio 4 gives you way more airtime than any state-funded radio show should be giving to one MP. It's been impossible not to know what you get up to."

Arthur isn't sure how he feels about that. Merlin had made it very clear what he thought of Arthur's political decisions on the day he got elected and none of what he said--loud enough for Arthur's neighbours to come knocking at 4 in the morning--suggested he was going to continue paying attention to Arthur's life, political or otherwise.

He looks at Merlin without saying anything, watching the colour rise up his face and wanting to ask if he's thinking about that night, too, and all the nights of the week before it.

"I've been on Radio 4 five times ever," he says instead. "One of those times was the day after the election and that was three years ago. Once was today.” He replays the interview at lightning speed in his head and tries not to hyperventilate when he gets to the _spoken to your father, Lord Pendragon?_ part.

John Humphreys’ face in his head morphs into Merlin’s, his hand resting on Arthur’s ankle. “It was a good interview,” he says, stroking a bit, cheeks pink. Arthur takes a calming breath. “I liked it. The bloke next to me on the train here thought it was crass to use the Today programme to come out as ‘you know, bent’ but--” he tightens his fingers when Arthur tenses “--I told him you had a sizable competitive streak and had to out-out all the rest of us gays by coming out to the entire country at once and well, he seemed to understand after that.”

Arthur gapes. “Anything else?”

“He was very supportive of you switching to Labour,” says Merlin, shrugging. His mouth curves as he contemplates the floor.

Arthur takes the opportunity to stare at his face, the long fingers still wrapped around his ankle. His skin is prickling as if the last few years haven’t happened and Arthur has to come to terms very quickly with being less past this than he’d hoped. He takes a deep breath to stop himself doing anything else stupid and life-changing today.

Merlin says, "You didn't really think I'd forget how long it’s been, did you?"

"Forget--"

"That it was three years ago."

"No, Merlin," Arthur says slowly, though his heart is speeding up. He resists the urge to hide in his beer bottle. "You're not _that_ \--no."

Merlin nods. "Okay," he says to his own beer. "I mean, good." He hesitates before looking up. “The Year 10s set my chemistry lab on fire this morning and then there was a whole other situation with the Head--otherwise I'd have seen the news earlier. I left as soon as I heard.”

Arthur tries to come up with a response that makes up for losing all his breath at once, fully aware that Merlin doesn’t care as much as all that about the shifting makeup of parliament.

“Better late than never, Merlin,” is what he settles on, voice rough, meeting Merlin’s not-smile head on.

 

 

It's a long time into tomorrow when Arthur catches himself falling off the sofa and realises he's been falling asleep against the arm. He grabs the back and pulls himself upright.

"Careful," says Merlin, eyes crinkling over his book--Arthur's book. He's a few chapters into the sodding history of cricket. "No good switching allegiance to the good guys if the first thing you do about it is break your head in your own living room."

"Right," says Arthur, trying to blink himself awake. The light spilling through the window from the streetlamp is casting half of Merlin yellow and half into shadow. "You're still here."

"So I am."

"Are you--um. Do you want to stay?"

"Yes," says Merlin. His gaze is warm. "Just tonight. If you want me to."

Arthur wants nothing more, and nods, wishing he could focus properly. He plants his feet on the floor and stretches, not missing Merlin’s choke. He rolls his shoulders.

Merlin kicks him. “Be good.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Arthur, and ignores Merlin’s snort. “Ah. My flatmate isn’t coming back tonight. So you can stay in his room. Or you can sleep here, obviously, this sofa is very comfortable. Or I can get you an Uber, if...if you want to.”

Merlin doesn’t look away from the perlite ceiling. “Trying to get rid of me?”

“No.” Arthur hastens on. “You’ll be making your own breakfast, mind.”

“Have you got anything to make breakfast out of, without other people here?”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “There’s--”

“--aside from toast and Marmite?”

“I’ve got some eggs,” says Arthur defensively, trying to remember how many weeks ago he bought them and hoping Merlin doesn’t stop staring at the ceiling while he does. This conversation is discomfiting in its familiarity. “And mushrooms.” They’re not his. He’ll replace them.

"What kind of MP has a flatmate, anyway? Actually--what kind of Pendragon has a flatmate?"

"He was my parliamentary researcher," says Arthur. "Up until today. I imagine he's now my ex-researcher, he’s been remarkably difficult to get hold of. Living together was convenient."

Merlin frowns and gestures at the leftist library above him. “Did he...know who he was working for?”

“Know thine enemy,” says Arthur in the same dire tone as he’d been subject to every time he had his dinner over a discussion on Marx and Engels. “Obviously that didn’t work quite the way he intended it to.”

Merlin looks at him in a way that makes something in Arthur’s chest heat, and doesn’t say anything. Arthur thinks helplessly about everything he’s tried not to want since Merlin left this flat the last time, furious and hurt, dragging his clothes on before the sunrise and snapping invectives about Arthur’s father, about personal and social responsibility and how _it’s not just about you, Arthur, and it’s not just about the gay thing_.

Arthur opens his mouth without knowing what he’s going to say. Merlin gets there first with, “It’d be just like you to make me sleep out here when I’ve come all this way to see how you’re doing. Which one’s his room, then?”

 

 

Arthur digs around in the bathroom cabinet for a spare toothbrush to give Merlin, and emerges successful only to find Merlin stripped down to his boxers and face-down on top of the covers in the other bedroom. Arthur wouldn’t trust those pillows for an instant, but Merlin is already snoring, and what he doesn’t know probably can’t hurt him. Arthur doesn’t let himself look. He picks a blanket up off the floor and drapes it over Merlin’s back, then turns off the overhead light and shuts the door quietly behind him. 

On the other side of the hall, he takes off his tie and drags his shirt over his head before crawling under the covers. Arthur has been awake for longer than he wants to think about, had more awful conversations today than any other in his adult life, and the rain, falling in a quiet rush against the Velux window, should be lulling him to sleep.

A stray firework goes off outside. Arthur rolls onto his back. 

Merlin definitely isn’t going to be there still in the morning.

The door snicks open. “Arthur?”

“Merlin?” Arthur goes up onto an elbow and squints at the door through the dark. “You all right?”

“Yes,” says Merlin, still impossible to make out. He sounds closer. “I--Jesus _Christ_ , ow!”

Arthur sits up more. “What is it?”

“Sorry, nothing, stubbed my toe on your ridiculous--Arthur. Do you really want me to sleep in your flatmate’s room?”

Arthur’s heart rockets into his throat. He fumbles for the light and brushes against warm skin instead, and now his mouth is dry. He lets his fingers curl around Merlin’s arm--his hip, actually, he realises. “No,” he says, and tugs.

They’re kissing before Merlin’s body hits the bed. Arthur curls over him, one hand cupping his head, the other pressing him down into the mattress, gasping when Merlin wriggles into his embrace. He kisses Merlin harder, swallowing his moan.

Merlin’s hands spread wide across Arthur’s back. He had done that the last time they were together, too, every night for a week before the election, as if he wanted to touch every inch of Arthur that no one else got to see. Arthur had forgotten.

“You got thinner,” mumbles Merlin against his mouth, like he knows what Arthur is thinking. “Westminster canteens not up to scratch?”

Arthur snorts a laugh. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

“I don’t care what we talk about,” says Merlin, and slides his leg between Arthur’s, pushing his thigh up to Arthur’s cock at the same time as Arthur tightens his fingers in Merlin’s hair. “I’m just happy to be here.”

“So I see.” Arthur rocks against Merlin’s erection and they groan together. Arthur’s head is spinning, caught in the feeling of it all, and he can’t touch enough of Merlin.

He lets Merlin undo his trousers-- “God, you’re going to be wearing suit jackets to bed within a few years, aren’t you--” and kisses his way down Merlin’s neck as Merlin shoves down their boxers. His skin tastes of sweat and what must be the lab fire from the morning, which Arthur decides probably won’t kill him when Merlin moans and pushes his head down. The quilt is bunching up in the lower half of the bed, rubbing against Arthur’s cock as he slips further down Merlin’s body.

“God,” Merlin breathes when Arthur presses kisses to his stomach and the top of his legs, his cock leaking against Arthur’s cheek, and says it again, louder, when Arthur takes the head into his mouth. “Go on, deeper, take more.”

Arthur moans around him. Merlin gets his hand on the back of his head and pushes lightly until Arthur has as much as he can take in his mouth, then pulls him off again. He repeats the motion, letting Arthur drool all over him as he pushes and then draws his head back up. “Touch my balls--like that, now go down again.”

Arthur does as instructed, a wave of relief sinking through him at letting go. He slows, letting himself feel Merlin’s cock in his mouth, considering the weight of it. He rocks his hips against the bed again.

Merlin says, “Touch yourself--hump the bed a bit, now suck harder. Squeeze, yeah. Fuck, Arthur-- _fu-uuck_ , yes--put one of your fingers in- inside me--”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Arthur is impressed that Merlin is managing to keep himself together. He ruts against the bed as he presses his finger into Merlin’s hole, cradling Merlin’s cock with his tongue and going down in a feat of coordination he wouldn’t manage without Merlin’s, “Slower, slower--now more, use the flat of your tongue. _God._ ”

Arthur slides in another finger next to the first, fucking Merlin a little as he hollows his cheeks and sucks. He wants Merlin to come in his mouth and he wants to feel his hand on his cock, stripping it slowly and talking in Arthur’s ear.

Merlin flattens the hand not in Arthur’s hair along his shoulder blade, digging his fingers in. His speech is slurring a bit, all nonsense words that Arthur tries to catch, making himself stop his hips so he can focus on getting Merlin to moan and writhe and finally blurt a warning that Arthur doesn’t need. He comes up enough to swallow all Merlin’s come, feeling him clench around his fingers, swearing and sighing Arthur’s name.

He’s hardly done when he pulls on Arthur’s hair to bring him up, saying, “Come on, don’t make me wait.” 

Arthur ignores him, withdrawing his fingers carefully. He lets Merlin’s cock fall from his mouth and presses his lips to it, hoping Merlin still likes stimulation after the fact, and gets the vocal reaction he was hoping for.

“You prick,” Merlin mutters after a moment, and tugs Arthur’s hair more. “Let me touch you, fucking come on, let me. I want to get you off, can I? You’ll like it, please--”

Arthur moans at the switch from authoritative to begging. He says, “Don’t, I’ll come,” and crawls up Merlin’s body, pausing to suck his nipple into his mouth, then going up and sucking at the base of Merlin’s neck, knowing he’ll get another loud groan. 

“You’re not the only one who remembers things,” says Merlin, and slides his hand down to encircle Arthur’s cock. He jerks it slowly, finding Arthur’s mouth and kissing him hard, sliding his tongue in to taste, then tracing his lips along Arthur’s jaw. “Your cock, god, Arthur. Tomorrow I want you to fuck me. And my mouth. I’m going to stay here and touch you and we can do this all day--”

Arthur shudders as he comes, fucking into Merlin’s grip. Merlin continues to pull his cock, loosening his hold. Arthur has no idea what he’s saying as he comes but then Merlin is kissing his face, whispering something that Arthur is going to make him repeat as soon as he’s got it together, and then again when it’s daylight and this isn’t all an impossible dream.

He falls back down to the bed and breathes, eyes closed, as Merlin faffs about with tissue and Arthur’s water glass and pulls the quilt up over them again, before finally lying down again. 

Arthur struggles to open his eyes when Merlin presses a long, light kiss to his mouth, heart full, and wants to ask what it was Merlin said before, but Merlin touches his hair and murmurs, “Go to sleep, you prat. You never make any sense when you're this tired.”

“Will you stay?”

“Try and stop me,” says Merlin, and Arthur, falling asleep, decides that that will do, for now.

 

 

Arthur wakes up late in the morning to swearing from another room. He stumbles out of bed before he can think about anything that happened the day before, any of the hundreds of phone calls or emails waiting for him or the fact that he appears to still be minus his live-in researcher, and doesn’t bother locating clothes before leaving the room.

Merlin turns around when Arthur gets to the kitchen. He’s wearing boxers and Arthur’s shirt from yesterday, and he raises his eyebrows when he sees Arthur stark naked in the doorway. “Good morning.”

“Is it still?”

“Just,” says Merlin, and points a frying pan at him. “You lied. Those eggs were not fit to be eaten.”

Arthur grimaces. He isn’t sure what to do with Merlin being gone from the bed when he woke up, now staring at him from the other side of the kitchen. And despite the time, it’s cold. He shivers.

Merlin notices and puts the frying pan back down on the hob. “You could have put clothes on.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, and decides to take another risk. He takes a backwards step towards his bedroom, feeling abruptly sure that things will be okay. “But you’d only end up taking them off me.”

A long second later, Merlin grins, and crosses the floor to follow him.


End file.
